Downward Spiral
by Solain Rhyo
Summary: The night of Sara's DUI, Grissom starts to realize just how far she's fallen. GS centered fic.
1. How Far The Proud Have Fallen

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"_We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love." – Sigmund Freud_

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"Sara, we need to talk."

God, how I hated that phrase. I hated it that much more because it was Grissom saying it.

"Sara?"

I sighed, my eyes on the streetlamps illuminating the darkness around the vehicle we occupied. All I wanted to do now was to go home and fall into sleep so devoid of anything resembling the reality I'd so recently started to hate; to be able to forget what I'd done tonight, and to avoid thinking about what the repercussions would be. Almost unconsciously, my hand strayed to the door handle on my right, but I clenched it abruptly. The moment we'd both been settled inside Grissom had locked the doors.

Because there was nothing else I could do, I said wearily, "Alright, Grissom. Let's talk."

Silence for a moment. I could almost hear him gathering his thoughts, formulating them into words. My hands came together in my lap, and I clasped them tightly when he began to speak.

"Why, Sara?"

Ah. No preliminaries, no hedging about the issue. It was my turn for silence, for this was not a question I could answer simply or easily. In fact, it was a question I didn't want to answer at all. There were so many reasons for what I'd done, and so many other reasons that made me want to remain silent around him. I knew that he wouldn't take me home until I talked, however, and so I took a deep breath to steel myself against the anxiety that was slowly building inside me. "I ... I just finished a triple, Grissom. And that last case – Linley Parker ..." I had to pause here, and tighten my jaw against the sudden tightness in my throat and the prickling in my eyes. "It was too much." I finished quietly.

"But that's not all, is it?"

_Damn him. _Damn his perceptiveness, damn his intuition. "Yes, it is."

_"Sara."_

Such authority, such demand in that one word. Suddenly I was angry; my frustration and my humiliation at the nights events were welling up inside me, fighting for release. "Look, Grissom, that's all there is to it. I shouldn't have done this, I should've just gone home, I shouldn't have tried to drive. I screwed up, and I'm sorry you were dragged into it. Just – just please take me home. Please."

"Alright." He said after a moment, putting the SUV – his SUV – into gear and slowly pulling out of the LVPD parking lot. I fastened my seat belt, and returned my gaze to the twinkling city sprawled out around us. Several minutes passed in awkward silence before he Grissom spoke again.

"Sara ... I know something's wrong."

"Oh, do you?"

"Brass spoke to me. He's concerned you have a ... drinking problem."

_Ah._ And there we had it. Brass had run to Grissom; I should have known he would. I closed my eyes, then, in grim resignation. It was inevitable that it would all have come down to this. I said heavily, "It's not a problem, Griss."

"After what happened tonight, it is."

He was right, and as much as I wanted to deny it, I couldn't, and that fact brought swift tears to my eyes. I fought them back furiously, averting my face from the row of lights we were passing. He couldn't see me like this, _he couldn't, _and so it was with extreme force of will that my voice remained steady when I spoke. "So now what? I lose my job?"

He didn't hesitate in replying. "No."

"Then what, Grissom?"

"For starters, I'm giving you a month off."

_A month? _"Gris –"

He cut me off, raising his voice for the first time this night. "A month, Sara. I should have been paying closer attention to your state of mind, and now I see how far things have gone. You need time off, and if you won't take it willingly then I have no choice." He paused, and when he continued his voice was softer. "It's for your own good."

_Of course it was. _"Fine."

We slowed then to a halt at a red light, and when he reached out suddenly to take my hand I was startled. "Sara," he said, his voice quiet, intense, as his fingers interlaced with my own. "You _need _this. I know ... I know it's been hard –"

"Do you?" I interjected coldly, jerking my hand away. All my rage that had been smoldering for months was coming uncontrollably closer to the breaking point. _How could he know?_ How could he know how hard it was to come to work every night, trying to deny, trying to ignore what it was I felt, what it was I wanted? How could he know that all my failures, my ill will, my recent behaviour had everything to do with him?

Slowly his hand returned to the steering wheel. "What is it? What is it that's driving you to this?"

Could he really not know?

"Tell me what it is, Sara."

_You. _Instead I said, "The light is green, Grissom."

An audible grinding noise filled the vehicle; the corner of my mouth quirked as I realized it was Grissom gritting his teeth. Now he was getting a taste of what it was like to never receive a straight answer, to always be guessing at the real truth behind the words. A rush of righteous vindication washed through me; I wanted him to feel what I felt.

The rest of the torturously long ride we spent suspended in silence. Leaning my head against the window, I struggled to avoid remembering the way his fingers had felt against mine. Twice tonight he'd held my hand; once in the station when he'd come to pick me up, and just now. Had he any idea the way his touch affected me? How, once upon a time, I'd craved his contact more than almost anything? I smiled then without humor. Of course he didn't know. And I would never tell him.

And that was the absolute crux of our situation.

Finally, we reached the well illuminated parking lot of the condo complex I lived in. Grissom guided his vehicle into a vacant stall – my stall - and shifted it into park. Immediately I unfastened my seat belt and pulled on the door handle. Still locked. Irritated, and a little desperate to get away, I turned to Grissom for the first time that night.

Before I could speak, he said, "Do you sleep at all anymore?"

I could have lied, but why bother? "An hour or two here and there."

"You don't sleep because of the nightmares." It was more a statement than a question.

"Yes." I replied, though in honesty it wasn't just that that kept me awake.

"Have you tried ... medication?"

"Yes." I seldom took them, but there was a prescription bottle of sleeping pills on my bedside table. Exhausted and emotionally raw suddenly, I said, "Grissom, I'm tired. Could you please unlock the door?"

He did as I asked, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I had one leg out the door when he said, "Try and sleep, Sara. I'll be back to check on you tomorrow morning."

I wanted to ask: _What makes you think I'll be here? _But he knew as well as I did that of course I'd be here; I had nowhere else to go. I merely nodded my acknowledgement. An instant before I closed the door, I heard him whisper something that brought a sharp, bitter ache to my chest.

"Sweet dreams, Sara."

I didn't watch as he drove away; I walked unsteadily to the main entrance of the complex and blinked rapidly as tears overflowed to stream down my cheeks unchecked.

_Sweet dreams, Sara._

There was no such thing for me anymore.

* * *

**TBC**


	2. Secure In My Disgrace

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed - it's much appreciated as this is my first attempt at writing a CSI fanfic.

**Disclaimer: **I forgot this in the first chapter, and so I state it here, and it applies to the_ story in it's entirety: _**I do not own, nor did I create any of the characters, places, or dialogue of CSI. **That said, be advised that there is dialogue in this chapter that is taken directly from the transcript of the _Butterflied _episode.

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_And I listen for the whisper of your sweet insanity, while I formulate denials of your effect on me ... _

_A Stranger – A Perfect Circle_

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I could do little more upon reaching my apartment than throw my coat over the back of a kitchen chair and wearily stumble into the living room before collapsing on the couch. My tears had not ceased; as I'd climbed the stairs to the third floor I'd begun to weep openly, and I had avoided taking the elevator for precisely that reason. Curled up then on the couch, I clutched a throw pillow and pressed it tightly against face, trying to muffle the noise of my gasping sobs. I hated the sound; it was abrasive, an unwelcome sign of my weaknesses. I tried to cease, to pull together the tattered remnants of my dignity and regain composure, but I found that I couldn't. I simply could not stop the flow of the tears, nor the rending torment that was shredding me slowly from my innermost soul outwards. Perhaps it was because I'd gone so long without permitting myself to gaze upon the harsh, brutal state my life had long since deteriorated into; perhaps it was because I'd been forced to acknowledge this night that I was nowhere near as strong as I dearly wanted to be.

Time passed – seconds or minutes I could not discern. My body began to ache from the exertion of my sobbing. And it was then I realized – _I knew_ – that everything was disintegrating because I'd become someone I loathed, someone I despised. Was there a way back to who I'd been?

_Could I return to who I'd been?_

I didn't want to dwell on that. And so, inevitable, mind returned to Grissom. Quite abruptly my tears stopped, and I could breathe again. The very thought of that man imbued within me so many things – rage, regret, sorrow, longing. He'd managed to thoroughly tie me up in emotional knots like no one ever had before. Amid all the self deceit I fed myself there remained at least one unblemished fact, and that was that I held Grissom in partial blame for what I'd become.

Was it unfair of me, I mused as I unfolded myself from the fetal position and lay the pillow down, to push the blame onto him? I didn't have to think; for I knew the answer, and it came with unbridled anger. Always he danced around me, flinging out compliments and enigmatic remarks as if they were particles of dust on the wind that would have no ultimate consequence. Never did he just present me with the solid truth – oh, no, that wasn't Grissom's way. And when I thought I'd read the signs right, and had finally taken that chance ...

I didn't finish the rest of the recollection, for it would have returned me right back down the desolate path I'd just walked. Instead, I rose to my feet and navigated my way – clumsily – across the darkened room to the patio door on the opposite side. I fumbled with the latch for a minute before sliding it open. A chill breeze hit me, stealing my breath for a moment. Shaking it off, I stepped out onto the small balcony and moved to lean against the iron wrought railing, leaving the door open behind me. My eyes were drawn instantly to the stars, as they always were. The night sky was one of my most favorite things to look at. Here, in the heart of Las Vegas, I couldn't see much of it, obscured as it was by clouds, by pollution, by the glare of the glowing city itself. Staring up and wishing I was far, far away, I felt a deep emptiness yawning within me. Great gaping chasms marring the sparkling sky stared back .

I sighed. Holes in the sky, holes in myself.

I pushed myself away from the railing, and went back inside, closing the door behind me. I didn't bother turning on the lights; instead I walked slowly, carefully, back to my kitchen. I knew that lying down to sleep would prove fruitless, and so I resigned myself to finding a reprieve the only way I knew how.

"_Brass spoke to me. He's concerned you have a ... drinking problem."_

Grissom's words returned to me in a distracting echo, but I merely smiled grimly before opening my fridge and grabbing the nearest bottle.

* * *

"_It's sad, isn't it, doc? Guys like us. Couple of middle- aged men who've allowed their work to consume their lives. The only time we ever touch other people is when we're wearing our latex gloves. We wake up one day and realize that for fifty years we haven't really lived at all. But then, all of a sudden ... we get a second chance_. _Somebody young and beautiful shows up. Somebody ... we could care about. She offers us a new life with her ... but we have a big decision to make, right? Because we have to risk everything we've worked for in order to have her. I couldn't do it ..."_

It took me a long time to realize I was awake. My face was cold, wet; I had been crying in my sleep. I opened my eyes slowly, still able to hear Grissom's voice in my dream, and embittered all the more because those words had been spoken once in reality. I was still unsure whether he had known I'd been standing outside the two way glass when he'd said those words to Lurie, and I was too afraid to ask. Standing there, listening and comprehending, finally, what it was Grissom had never said ... I'd felt as though the earth had given way beneath my feet. It was like an aching void, devouring me from the inside out. From that point onwards I'd treated Grissom as nothing more than a comrade, a coworker, thinking that by distancing myself I would begin to heal, begin to forget.

How very wrong I was.

I moved my body, and instantly moaned as every muscle I had protested. I was, I noticed through a haze, lying in a contorted position on my couch. My eyes then fell upon the myriad of empty bottles on the floor, and the previous night's events came rushing back in vivid clarity. I groaned and let my head fall back against the arm rest. A steady, rhythmic pounding was beginning to beat a staccato in my head, and so I lay there for long moments willing the pain to go away. It didn't; as if to join the headache in harmony a wave of nausea assailed me, and I was off the couch in a split second and racing for the bathroom.

Minutes later, the contents of my stomach now flushed away, I staggered to my feet and made it to the sink. I turned the water on and filled my cupped hands with water; after dousing my face several times I felt somewhat better. I raised my head, breathing deep, and it was then I saw myself in the mirror. As I'd suspected, I looked much the way I felt, which was somewhere in the region of completely horrible. My hair hung lank and stringy, my face was hollow and gaunt, and I was still clad in my clothes from the night previous. My eyes, however, were the clearest indication of my fallen state. My mother had once said my eyes were the most expressive part of me. What would she say now, I mused, if she could see them so empty, so devoid of anything remotely resembling emotion?

And, I wondered as I began to brush my teeth to rid my mouth of its acrid taste, what would she say if she knew that in order to sleep most nights, I drank myself into a stupor?

A sudden pounding at my front door broke into my grim reverie, and hastily I rinsed my mouth out and headed to see who it was. My hangover was worse than I thought, however, and as I entered the kitchen the world swam in my vision, which sent me stumbling into the stove. One of my pots, perched precariously on the burner, clattered loudly to the floor as I clutched at the countertop to regain my balance.

"Sara?"

"Damnit." I whispered. It was Grissom. I had completely forgotten he'd be checking up on me.

"Sara? Is everything ok?"

"Damnit," I muttered again, a little desperately, "Damn damn damn damn damn –"

"Sara? I know you're in there. Open the door."

I swallowed hard. If I opened the door, if he saw me like this –

_Let him, _an insidious voice inside me whispered. _What harm can it do?_

I already knew the answer to that. And so I took a deep breath, tried without some success to straighten my clothing that was wrinkled beyond any and all help, strode to the door, and opened it. Grissom's expression altered from one of mild concern to a mixture of greater concern and disappointment as he took in my bedraggled appearance. His gaze was clinical, analytical, and I knew with no small measure of bitterness that he was assessing my condition with a doctor's eye.

After a moment, he said what I knew he would say. "You look terrible."

I smiled without humor. "I feel terrible." I opened the door further and stepped aside so he could come through. He did so slowly, ever observant, ever the investigator, and I closed the door behind him while fervently wishing he would quickly leave. Too late I remembered the abundance of empty beer bottles in the living room, which were clearly in sight. Before I could move to block his view he spotted them, and turning back to me I could see him putting two and two together: the scattered remnants of my binge littering the floor in front of the couch; the rumpled clothing I still wore; my red and puffy eyes.

"Sara ... what did you ..." He paused, and sighed. "Why?"

"Why not?" I regretted the words the instant they were out of my mouth. Instantly his expression hardened, his eyes cooled, and I steeled myself for the reprimand that was coming.

"_Why not? _Come on, Sara. I thought we reached an understanding last night."

"That's right, Grissom. You _thought _we reached an understanding last night. Forgive me if our small and insubstantial exchange of pleasantries on the car ride home wasn't exactly all that clarifying. I recall nothing of the sort."

He stared at me for a moment. "You're mad at me."

I made a noise of exasperation and spun away, stalking with as much dignity as I could to the window overlooking the balcony. _He was so infuriating!_ The very first words out of his mouth had raised my level of indignation tenfold. How dare he? And as much as I hated him for doing this to me, as much as I hated the effect he had ...

"Sara, you can't keep doing this."

"It was only a few drinks."

"No, it wasn't. You were arrested for DUI last night, Sara. Or did you drink enough to forget that even happened?"

"No," I whispered, closing my eyes and leaning my throbbing head against the cold window pane. "I didn't forget."

"Then why ...?"

_Because I hurt, _I wanted to say, _because I can't stand to be sober, when all I do is think of what could have been, and will never be. Because I want to forget. _"Look at it this way, Grissom. At least I got some sleep."

A hand seized me by the shoulder then and spun me around so quickly I gasped. Grissom was glaring down at me, and I'd only ever seen his eyes shine with that kind of fury in the interrogation room. "So that's how you justify this? Surely you're not that idiotic –"

That did it. Something inside me snapped, and I wrenched away furiously. "No, I'm not justifying it, Grissom! You wouldn't understand even if I tried to explain! If I try and sleep normally, I lie awake thinking. If I take medication I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. The only way I can sleep is to ... is to ..." I trailed off, fury abruptly gone, feeling drained and weak.

"So you drink and drink just to sleep?"

"No," I whispered, averting my eyes because tears were threatening to spill over. "I drink to forget."

"To forget? Sara, what are you talking about?"

For such a renowned detective, he was incredibly obtuse. Or perhaps I was just being vague. Either way, I didn't care anymore. My vision was beginning to swim again, and the pain in my head had intensified with my yelling. I just wanted to lie down, so I muttered. "Never mind. Look, I'm not feeling all that hot, so maybe you should go."

"No."

_What? _"Grissom, please –"I was walking past him, wanting to sit down, when suddenly the world tilted violently, and I found myself crumpled on the floor. Grissom was there in an instant, crouched by my side.

"What's wrong?"

I snorted, and then winced and closed my eyes as the sound made my ears ring, "It's a hangover. Kind of obvious."

He was silent for so long I cracked my eyes open again to see what exactly he was doing. He regarded me with a degree of intense speculation that made me distinctly uncomfortable, and so I tried to sit up. He surprised me again, however, by reaching out and putting one hand on my shoulder and pushing me back down. I scowled – hadn't I asked him to leave? But he held up his other hand to stop me from speaking, and I fell silent.

"I'm going to stay," he said in a deathly soft voice, "And you're going to have a shower, and change clothes, and then you will eat something. And when all that is done, we are going to sit face to face and have a long talk."

My heart sank. I didn't want to do this, not now, not when I felt like this. He shook his head, seeing me about to protest, his gaze steely and brooking no room for debate. Knowing it to be of no use, but deciding to try anyways, I asked, "But aren't you tired, Grissom? You just got off shift."

"I'll be fine."

I sighed, and sat up. He stood, and offered me his hand, but I got to my feet without his aid. I cast a glance at the floor around us, at the empty bottles of beer, and felt a swift and sharp longing to be dead drunk, to be immune from the emotional torture I knew was coming.

"Don't," Grissom said quietly, and I glanced at him in confusion.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look like that. Like you'd rather be drunk."

The sad truth was, I _would_ rather be drunk. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" He asked, and then continued so quickly I had no chance to ask what he meant, "Go shower, Sara. I'll make you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. I'm not leaving to you eat something." That made me stiffen. What gave him the right to barge in here and order me around? Off duty, he wasn't my supervisor. He went on, "You're too thin. And I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Inwardly, I winced. So my fall into disgrace hadn't been as subtle as I hoped. I wondered then if everyone at work knew about my DUI, but I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. Instead I shrugged. "Fine. Pots are in the upper right hand cupboard, pans in the lower left."

He nodded, and watched as I wove my way around the furniture in order to head to my bedroom. My vertigo wasn't gone completely, though, and I faltered in my steps. Grissom was there immediately, one arm around my shoulders to support me. I didn't want his help, didn't want him to touch me, but I was too tired and feeling too ill to put up a fight. Resignedly I let him walk me to my bedroom. I turned before closing the door.

"Grissom ... why are you doing this?"

"I'll answer that," He said softly, "When you tell me why you're doing _this_ to yourself."

A stalemate, then. I shrugged. "I won't be long in the shower." And I closed the door, only to collapse against it weakly, glad to have this barrier between he and I.

As much as I hated it, as much as I wanted it gone, I couldn't deny my attraction to him anymore then I could deny that I was alive. And here we were again – his being here and his concern were both signals I was unsure how to read. Did this mean he cared in a manner other than a supervisor for his employee? I didn't think so, and besides, what point was there in hoping? So I would endure his presence, although pieces of me would continue falling apart for longing of what I couldn't have.

I could hear him rattling about in my kitchen. I grabbed my terry cloth robe from a hook on the wall and headed for the shower.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Intervention And Confession

* * *

"_If I love you, what business is it of yours?" – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_

* * *

I stood for a long time under the almost unbearably hot spray of the shower, willing the water to wash away my shame, my mistakes, my longing. My head bent, I simply stood and against my will relived the incident that had been the catalyst to my life's downward spiral.

"_Would you like to have dinner with me?" _

I'd been so nervous ... all that day I'd made numerous trips to his office, wanting to ask, thinking that after all that time we'd finally made the connection that was, I had thought, inevitable between us. It had been the end of the shift when I'd worked up the courage to ask, and I had been eager, and earnest. But then ...

"_No."_

"_Why not? Let's ... let's have dinner. Let's see what happens."_

"_Sara ..." _He had sighed then, and my heart had plummeted_. "I don't know what to do about this."_

"_I do." _And I had. That was why I was there, after all.

For a long, tense moment we'd simply stared at each other, and it was then that the fragile hopes I'd harbored for me, for _us_, had splintered. And in an effort to stay calm, to remain nonchalant, I'd given him a parting shot : _"You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late."_

Without realizing it, I'd curled one hand into a fist, and as I replayed those words again in my mind I struck the tiled wall before me. _Why? _I demanded silently, heart-sick, _Why me? Why him? _I received no answer; I never did. Miserable and terrified of confronting the man who even now waited for me in my kitchen, I turned the shower off and slid the fogged glass door open. For a moment I stood there, steam swirling around me, listening to the faint sounds of Grissom preparing a meal. I absurdly wished then that I had some means of escape, some small window in here or my room through which I could crawl to gain freedom from what was inevitable. With a heavy sigh I pulled my blue bath sheet off the rack and wrapped it around myself, grabbing another to wind around my dripping hair. The scent of whatever Grissom was making had drifted into the room, and at that instant I realized the severity of the situation I now found myself in. I'd gone too far last night, and the consequences were about to be revealed. I felt ill, not only from the hangover but from my extreme anxiety and it was with shaking hands that I dried myself and combed my wet hair free of its tangles before entering my room to dress.

Minutes later, clad in worn out jeans and a heavy sweater, I furtively opened the door to my room, hoping beyond hope that Grissom had inexplicably vanished. But no, there he was, standing at my kitchen table, setting it for two. Hesitantly I drifted over to the stove, to see what he had concocted, and found a pot of boiling chicken soup. Grissom had noticed me then, and beckoned me to sit in front of a bowl and spoon. Silently I obeyed, and as I stepped past him he held out one hand, in which there were two aspirin. I took the pills, studiously avoiding his gaze, and swallowed them dry before sitting down. He'd gone back to the kitchen, and returned a minute later with the soup. He served me my portion, then his own, and returned the soup to the stove top. When he finally he sat down opposite me, I was ready to scream from the charged, almost tangible tension between us.

"Sara," He said, and I jumped at the sound. He gave me a peculiar look, and pointed with his spoon. "Eat."

I glanced down at my bowl, and while the liquid within it smelled enticing, my stomach roiled uneasily. I shook my head, "I don't think I can."

"You need to eat something. You don't need to finish it all. Just some of it."

That brought a ghost of a smile to my face. "Yes, Dad." I shot him a look to see his expression, and was surprised to see the corner of his mouth tilted upwards in amusement. Feeling a little of my nervousness seep away, I lifted my spoon and began to eat. I only made it through several mouthfuls before I began to feel distinctly unwell again, and so I pushed the bowl away. Grissom, who ate fast and was always done before me, pushed his aside as well, propped both arms on the table, and clasped his hands. There was no avoiding it now; the time of reckoning was at hand, and it was with no small measure of misery that I forced myself to meet his gaze.

Because he said nothing, I spoke first. "Well, Grissom? Can we please get this over with?"

He nodded, brows pulled together in a frown. That wasn't reassuring. He didn't speak immediately, instead leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. I fidgeted; his stare was beginning to unnerve me as it usually did. Finally he said, "I need to know that you're going to be okay, Sara."

_Whoa. _That came out of left field, and out of surprise all I could dumbly reply with was, "What?"

"I said I need to know that you're going to be okay."

"I'll be fine."

"How can you do that?" He demanded suddenly, his tone sharp. My eyes, which had been steadfastly avoiding his presence, snapped back to him. He went on, his tone heated, "How can you sit there and blatantly lie to me like that?"

"I – I'm not lying, Grissom." I said weakly, taken aback.

"Yes, you are. You've done it for a long time now, and it took me this long to catch on. I don't think it's just others you lie to, either. I think you lie to yourself as well."

"No, I don't." I said with the beginnings of some anger.

"Prove it. Stop the drinking, stop pretending around everyone like you're okay and stop ... avoiding me like you always do."

My heart skipped a beat. "I don't avoid you, Grissom."

"You're lying again," He had raised his voice, and while he wasn't quite yelling he was close enough to it that inwardly, I was cringing. "Why can't you just tell me the truth? How hard can it be?"

_You have no idea, _I wanted to say, but I just mutely shook my head and made to rise from my seat.

"_Sit. Down." _He ground out, slamming both hands flat on the table. Shaken, I dropped back down. "You're not running out of this, Sara. We are going to get through this _now._"

I said nothing, now in a state of genuine terror. This had gotten way, way out of hand in a manner of seconds. Grissom's eyes, so icy in their fury, refused to loose their hold on my own. "You _do_ avoid me. You won't look at me anymore, you only speak to me when I ask you a question, and you go out of your way to be assigned to any case that I'm not working on. I know the why of it, Sara; it was obvious." I felt heat rise to my face as again, his refusal to my proposal ripped resoundingly through my mind. Grissom continued relentlessly, "I figured you had the right; in fact, I didn't even blame you. But then the weeks went by and you began to change in other ways as well. You hardly speak to anyone anymore, you never smile, and always look ill. And I'm partially to blame, because I didn't think enough of it to say anything. But then Brass came to me with his suspicions, and the very next night you get pulled over for driving drunk –"

"Grissom, stop!" I shouted, rising from the table so abruptly that I sent my chair falling over backwards. He fell silent, more from surprise than because I had ordered him to. I was trembling, I realized vaguely; my overly analytical mind was doing its work, detached from the more volatile, emotionally chaotic parts of me. I swallowed several times, and when I could speak past the lump in my throat I said in a voice that was painfully uneven, "Leave. Get out. Please."

"No." He was on his feet then, too. Separated from him by the table, I would have given anything to be on a different plane of existence. Any minute now the very tenuous hold I had on all my inner turmoil was going to give way, and I couldn't let him see me like that. I was breathing quickly, in panicked gulps, and I almost sobbed aloud when he slowly stepped around the table to come in my direction.

"I'm not leaving until you give me reasons, Sara. Real reasons." His voice had softened, was barely more than a whisper, as if he were afraid that to speak any louder would send me fleeing. It would have; as it was now I was steadily backing away.

"I don't have to answer to you," I said, and my voice cracked.

"If this concerned just you ... then that would be true. But you're not the only one involved."

"Yes," I said, a little wildly, "I am."

He was a little more than a foot away from me now, and I was backed into a corner. "I won't stand by and watch you destroy yourself, Sara."

"Then don't watch."

His eyes glinted; frustration, and ... _sorrow? _What he said next astounded me. "I know I'm part of why you've done this."

"No, you're not." I automatically replied, dumbfounded because he knew what I was certain didn't.

"Another lie." His hands were held out before him in a gesture of peace, "Just acknowledge it, please, Sara. My ... rejection .... That's what set it all off, isn't it."

He was hitting way too close to home, but he knew it now, so why deny it? "Yes." I whispered, aware that that one word could alter everything on a grand scale.

He closed his eyes then; a brief wince at what I'd said? He opened them again, and asked me, "And what else, Sara? What else is causing this?"

He was too close; I couldn't think with him so near, and so I pushed away from the wall and very quickly strode to stand, again, before my patio window. He didn't follow, merely watched, and when I spoke again I was staring at the hazy sky outside. "I can't explain it ... I'm just so – so _sick_ of it all. The cases get worse and worse ... I dread going to work, Grissom. I dread the assignments you give us. And the problem is, when you get off work and come home, things are supposed to be all better, things are supposed to go away ..."

"But they don't." Grissom finished my thoughts quietly.

"Right. They don't." I turned to face him, having calmed somewhat. "And so I'm coping, the only way I can."

"This," he said, gesturing with a wave of his hand to the empty beer bottles, "is not the only way you can cope."

"It's the only way I know how."

He didn't respond, and I turned back to the window. It was easier to look at something that didn't watch me back with a measuring, judgmental gaze. I heard him walking across the carpet, and then he was standing beside me, careful, I noticed, to keep his distance. He said then, "I want to help you overcome this."

And I replied by asking the one and only thing that really mattered, "Why?"

There was no hesitation on his behalf, though I was certain there would be. "Because I care enough to want to help. Because I'm partially to blame. And because ..."

"Yes?"

"Because if I don't, it will be too late. For many things."

For a moment I stood and tossed that phrase around and around in my head; then, with a suddenness that left me breathless I realized there was an underlying meaning hidden within those words. Speechless, I slowly turned my head to look at him, to see if this was another thing of chance, something he'd said without realizing the importance. For a second he stared back, his gaze serious and grave, until a shrill ringing ripped through the tense stillness. Eyes never leaving mine, he reached down and freed his pager from where it hung at his belt. Seeing the message, he cursed softly.

Knowing what it would read, I said, "You had better go."

He nodded. "I'll go, but this isn't over. I'll be back when I can."

"No." I said quickly, and then blanched. But his expression remained the same: calm and intense.

"Yes." He replied. "I meant what I said, Sara."

"Just what ... just what did you mean?"

He smiled then, although it was tainted by the saddened, wistful light in his eyes. "You'll figure it out. We'll figure it out together." And with that vague, enigmatic comment he turned and made his way to my front door. He stopped once on the threshold, glancing back at me where I still stood numb with shock and a number of other afflictions, before crossing over and closing the door behind him.

In a state of utter bewilderment, I sank to the floor and drew my knees to my chest.

_What the hell had just happened? _


End file.
